Of Sociopaths and iPods
by The
Summary: When Mycroft suggests Sherlock may be something other than a high functioning sociopath, as his younger brother often claims, how does Sherlock take it? A short introspective piece about how Sherlock may look at himself. This is a two part story with scenes that both pre and post Reichenbach.


**Authors Note: The characters contained in this story are not mine; I'm only borrowing them for my own amusement and am making no profit whatsoever. This is just a relatively short introspective one and a half shot. Also, all information regarding sociopaths is from the book _The Sociopath Next Door_ by Martha Stout, PhD. I am by no means an expert, nor am I trying to be. My understanding of psychology is limited to the little research I did for this piece. This is my first Sherlock fic, and I am relatively new to the show. This struck me as an interesting point of analysis, and I haven't really seen it explored yet. Also, as a warning a section of this is Post-Reichenbach. As always, reviews are absolutely appreciated.**

He'd always just assumed that he was a sociopath. On more than one occasion he'd wished everyone else would just come to the same conclusion and let him be. To be frank, regardless of the actual cause, be it psychological or anatomical, he was near enough to being one as makes no odds, and the constant pestering grated on him.

So when his brother, of all people, suggested that he might not be one, Sherlock had been taken aback. So taken aback, in fact, that he'd denied it out of hand and carried on testing the effect of prolonged exposure of electronics to stomach acid. The fact that it was John's iPod meant he would probably have hell to pay, but it also meant that he would no longer have to endure John's taste in music. Well, temporarily at least.

The problem was, that although Sherlock had denied it, the suggestion had started worming its way into the analytical part of his mind. He wished that annoying little thought would stay put in the delete file where he'd put it. That way it could be overwritten and he could continue to live on in relatively ignorant bliss.

The problem was that someone was either a sociopath or they weren't. There was no grey area, no cure - not that he, himself, had ever wanted one. Sherlock not only met the requisite 3 diagnostic criteria, but could check off all 7 situational criteria listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. He mentally ran through the list of requisite symptoms:

1. Failure to conform to social norms - His ongoing feud with Anderson and Donovan. Check. Caring more about the mystery than the lives behind his cases. Check. Not knowing when to shut up around Molly. Check. Various body parts in the fridge. Check.

2. Deceitfulness, manipulativeness - Setting up Mycroft to take the fall for stealing the school's Bunsen burners. Check. Running after the cabbie, primarily to prove that the injury of a man he just met was psychosomatic. Check. Blackmailing the provost at University to give him a passing grade, simply because he couldn't bring himself to be bored to the core during lecture. Checkity check check.

3. Impulsivity, failure to plan ahead - Impaling the pig _**before**_ securing transport back to Baker Street. Check. Need one mention the bullet holes in Mrs. Hudson's wall? Check.

4. Irritability, aggressiveness - Where to start? He could think of more examples than he could reasonably count or describe. Check.

5. Reckless disregard for the safety of self or others - Again, the wall. Check. Although, in all fairness, Sherlock had known that the probability of actually injuring someone during one of his random outbursts was on the miniscule side given the calibre of the gun and thickness of the brick on the other side. Half check then. That said, he could think of plenty of other examples of this particular criteria. Going with the cabbie that night, and pushing Bertie Wooster into the pool at school to name a few. It should be mentioned Bertie was about five at the time and wore metal leg-braces. At 13, Sherlock had simply wanted find out if the old adage about learning to swim in the deep end was actually true.

6. Consistent irresponsibility - This one was a little shakier in Sherlock's opinion, although he'd expect John would feel differently, given the number of times his flatmate had to run to the store, or plead with Mrs. Hudson on their behalf, or answer Sherlock's phone. He supposed it would have to count as a check.

7. Lack of remorse after having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another person - Well beyond the iPod in his hand, which he felt was probably case in point, there were numerous incidents that came to mind. His experiment with John in Dartmoor. Disturbing the sanctity of a crime scene, hundreds of times. Mistreating scores of witnesses in order to get what he wanted. He didn't really think that throwing the CIA agent out the window, thrice, counted since it was on the defensive. Still a solid check though.

Despite this small mountain of evidence, there were now obvious cracks in his self-diagnosis. He couldn't exactly pinpoint when he'd first noticed the pesky emotions that contradicted all the diagnostic criteria in the world. Perhaps they had been there all along, and he'd just chosen to ignore them. Being an intellectual soul, he could have easily rationalized them away as frustration, anger, possessiveness, or perfectionism. But after this latest case out on the moors, Sherlock had started to re-examine his rationalizations.

Looking at it in the cold light of his mind palace, he couldn't deny it. He had felt guilty for his comments to John, even if he'd continued on with his experiment. He'd felt responsible for what had happened to Mrs. Hudson. In fact he always felt a protectiveness for the woman that had been more of a mother figure than his biological one ever could be. And that was saying something considering he had been for all intents and purposes a mama's boy. Mycroft could attest to the seriousness with which Sherlock took his protective duties over both Mrs. Hudson and John. Of course the CIA agent could also offer testimony on that particular point. The death of that blind woman had gotten to him, as had every other person he'd failed to save in time - not that he would publicly admit it. The facts were disturbingly obvious. He actually had a conscience. A stunted one granted, but he had one none the less. Since a sociopath, by its very definition had no conscience or empathy, he could not be one.

There was definitely something 'wrong' with him though, at least from the perspective of ordinary people. He doubted he'd ever manage many successful human relationships. He vaguely remembered John mentioning Asperger's as a potential cause of Sherlock's behaviour. Curiosity got the better of him, and he gave a quick rummage through his mental files. The only entry he had on the condition was: _Mental disorder, thought to be related to autism and savants. Little criminological value except that it __might__ lead to hate crime. _A quick follow-up query showed that space in that particular 'folder' was limited. Pursuing something that in reality has no bearing on his day-to-day life wasn't worth the effort, especially given that the evidence for a conscience was still circumstantial. Oh well, best off sticking with the original hypothesis until there was concrete proof. Or at very least aspiring to it.

***Post Reichenbach***

'Oh damn and bloody blast! Well that's 3, 5, 6, and 7 out the bloody window and 1 is on the rocks.'

Sherlock's outburst startled Molly; she'd all but forgotten him brooding away in the corner. He hadn't said a word in almost three days. Honestly, she couldn't understand how John had managed to live with the man. Her crush had long since past, but in its place had grown a rather rocky friendship over the last three months. Well friendship from her point of view, she was never quite sure about the disgraced detective. That didn't mean she didn't want him out of her bloody small flat and back in Baker Street where he belonged. She wasn't entirely sure who would strangle whom first, but she was certain that it was dependant on the how long this self-imposed confinement of his lasted. Ignoring the blast of annoyance that swept through her, she signed and asked sweetly 'What's wrong Sherlock?'

'Oh nothing, I just realized Mycroft was right about something. Did nothing to cure the boredom though.' Sherlock sighed retreating back into himself. Yes they both would be happier when Sherlock deemed it safe to approach John and likely get chinned for his troubles. A small twitch of a smile ghosted across his lips. It was all worth it though, not that he'd ever admit it obviously. 'Molly?' Surprisingly, he waited for a reply before continuing on with his demand. He got a non-committal 'hmmm'. She had gone back to the medical journal she'd been reading. 'Could you pick me up a text on Asperger's disease?' Another non-committal 'mmmhmmm'. After another couple a minutes of non-response Sherlock added 'Any time now would be good.'

'What, now?' Molly asked exasperated, finally looking up from her reading. 'What do you need it for?'

'Oh nothing, just wanted to do a little self-enlightenment is all.' Sherlock said off-handedly, not keen on explaining why he wanted the book.

'You'll get it tomorrow, then. Now, goodnight Sherlock' She said and headed off into the other room. Sherlock sighed, he missed John. John would have gotten him the book. In fact, John would have probably had the book on hand. _Oh well, by my calculations, only a couple of more months and life can start getting back to normal again. At least the money in my will should ensure that life would be relatively as I left it, given that the rent at 221B Baker Street would be easily taken care of, and John is progressing along his therapy nicely._


End file.
